


Colour Me Confused

by orderlychaos



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Get Together, M/M, Pining, because he's Phil's BFF, mentions of Nick Fury - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-07-26 00:35:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7553329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orderlychaos/pseuds/orderlychaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint doesn’t know Phil’s favourite colour, so he decides to find out in a very Clint-like way: by guessing.</p>
<p>At first, Phil is confused at why this is suddenly so important.  Then he gets concerned, because it’s sort of more complicated than Phil wants to admit to, particularly since the answer has to do with Clint himself, and a whole lot of squirmy feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Colour Me Confused

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a Coulsonweek ficlet on the theme of colour, but I didn't finish it in time. I'm finally posting it because why not. Also, there may be an issue in the middle somewhere, but I elected not to fix it.

The first time Barton asked, Phil didn’t think much of it.  Clint was drugged up to his eyeballs after a particularly nasty mission where he’d been stabbed, punched and then caught in an explosion.  Now that he’d been patched up by SHIELD Medical, Phil stomach was slowly beginning to unknot, but considering Clint had just spent the previous twenty minutes describing in detail what it was about pancakes that he loved so much, Phil forgave himself for the momentary confusion.

(According to Clint, pancakes were sticky and could be used as pillows, because that’s where his mind went on morphine.  Phil was going to assume he may not have the same preference when sober.)

“Heeey, Co’lsn,” Clint slurred.  “Coulson!”

Phil glanced up from his paperwork to glance at his asset.  Clint’s face was looking a little less alarmingly pale now that he was safe and patched up, but the bruises blossoming across his cheek and forehead still made Phil’s stomach clench.

“Yes, Barton?” he said, trying to keep his voice bland.

He didn’t manage it, but Clint was likely too drugged to notice.

“Wha’s your fav’rit colour?” Clint asked, his face unnaturally serious.

Phil blinked.  “Why do you want to know?” he replied, mostly to buy himself a little time.  (And in the hope Clint might get distracted.)

“It’s impor’ant,” Clint said.

Swallowing, Phil tried to ignore the way his heart had suddenly started beating faster in his chest.  Phil’s feelings for his asset had crossed the line from friendship to more a long time ago, spurred on by the selfless way Clint _cared_.  It went beyond how Clint continued to save his life in the field, or passed him the last egg roll when they were going over paperwork in Phil’s office.  Clint made sure to remember how Phil preferred his coffee black in the mornings, but with cream in the afternoon, and how he absolutely _hated_ celery.  Learning and never forgetting Phil’s favourite colour was just another thing Clint would do, probably so he could do something heartbreakingly sweet on Phil’s next birthday.

If Phil wasn’t so painfully in love with him, it would hurt less that this was just Clint trying hard to be a good friend.  Clint’s childhood had hardly left him with any good examples of friendship, and Clint tried hard to compensate for flaws that didn’t exist anywhere outside of Clint’s mind.  Phil couldn’t imagine his life without Clint -- and his endearing friendship -- in it, and putting up with a little heartbreak seemed like a small price to pay.  Even when it ended up with the stomach-clenching guilt of Clint being laid up in bed after stepping between Phil and a mercenary with a knife.

“C’mon, Col’son,” Clint said, drawing out the syllables as best as he could while not completely in charge of his own tongue.  “Tell me.”

Clint’s dark blond hair was messier than ever, still streaked with soot and dried blood despite the nurses’ -- and Phil’s -- best efforts.  The paper gown he wore was twisted, because apparently Clint could only stay still in a sniper’s nest, and his multicoloured eyes were narrowed.  Clint’s eyes had been one of the first things Phil had ever noticed about Clint, right after his ridiculous arms, and they were definitely the reason why Phil had noticed his feelings for Clint were no longer entirely platonic.

Those eyes were always sharp and assessing, but the colour was never static.  Phil had seen them bright blue in the summer sun, and a dull grey when Clint was in pain.  He’d seen them dark with anger and bright with excitement.  In fact, all the different colours of Clint’s eyes had become Phil’s favourite everythings.  Right now, they were startlingly blue under the bright lights, and slightly hazy from the morphine, but Phil still doubted they missed much.

“Blue,” Phil said, clearing his throat when his voice came out slightly rough.  “My favourite colour is blue.”

Clint scrunched up his entire face.  “No,” he said.  “Tha’s not it.”

Phil arched an eyebrow.  “It’s not?”

Clint shook his head.  “Nope,” he said, popping the ‘p’.  A slow grin spread across his face.  “But I’ll guess.”

“Oh, will you?” Phil said.  He doubted it.  Today, his favourite colour really _was_ blue -- the same shade as Clint’s slowly blinking eyes.  However, tomorrow it might be completely different.  The secret that Phil’s favourite colour was governed by the way Clint’s eyes changed colour depending on his mood or clothes was a secret Phil was willing to take to the grave.

Clint hummed, but his eyes were sliding shut as he slipped into sleep, so Phil didn’t quite get the full force of his argument.  Shaking his head, Phil went back to his paperwork, thinking that Clint would have forgotten all of this by the time he woke up next.

~*~

Clint didn’t forget.

~*~

Three days later, Phil discovered a post-it stuck to the center of his computer monitor when he came back from lunch.  Since he’d locked his office before he’d gone to meet Jasper, there were only a few people who could have left it, but the handwriting gave it away.  The message was only one word -- ‘purple?’ -- and it took Phil a moment to understand the meaning.  When he did, his eyebrows rose.  He hadn’t thought Clint would remember asking about Phil’s favourite colour, let alone still be trying to guess.

Even so, he made sure to leave a post-it note reply on the paperwork to release Clint from Medical.

(No.)

~*~

Clint got a little creative after that, and not just because he was on medical leave and had to get Natasha to do half his dirty work for him.  Guesses appeared on coffee cups, post-it notes and scraps of paper left on his desk, hidden in his jacket, stuffed in between paperwork files, and once memorably tucked under Lola’s windshield wiper.  None of them were right.  Clint covered the basics first (red, white, green, orange), before quickly moving on to more outrageous suggestions (the black of Fury’s trenchcoat, puke-green, the swirly colour of Jupiter).

Phil started enjoying sending replies, all various versions of the word ‘no’.  (He was up to Russian next.)

The persistence was even flattering to Phil’s ego, because it was nice that someone cared about the little details of his life like that.  Even if Phil refused to admit, under any circumstances, what his favourite colour actually was.  Or rather, how he decided.  So far, Clint had refused to believe any of the times Phil had answered ‘blue’, ‘blue-green’, or ‘grey’ when asked, and Phil was beginning to suspect there wasn’t anything less than an explanation that would get Clint to drop this.

~*~

Then, as life at SHIELD was prone to do, Phil got sent on a mission that went FUBAR almost as soon as they hit the ground.  Phil managed to get the junior agents safe, but that was when things _really_ went to shit, because of course this was the one mission where Nick Fury himself had decided to come along.  All because Nick had decided to get _out from behind a desk_ and _into the field_ because Phil was _having all the fun_.  The fact that Nick could also use the opportunity to cause untold amounts of chaos just seemed to be icing on the cake.

(For Nick.  Phil was pretty sure _he_ was getting an ulcer.)

Regardless of the myriad of explosions Nick set off in downtown Varna, Phil spent the next two and a half weeks running around half of Bulgaria while being hunted by gun-runners, corrupt government officials and hit men.  Nick spent most of the time grinning like a loon while Phil swore loudly at him, which was pretty much exactly what they’d done in the Rangers together.  Only, this time, Phil was older and Nick was making him lose what was left of his hair.

By the time Phil got back Stateside and had handed Nick back over to Jasper for scolding (because ‘you do not make your boyfriend worry like that, Nicholas, because then I comfort eat an entire cheesecake!’), he was _exhausted_.  Also bruised, sore and questioning his career choices, but probably no more so than usual.  Phil had a mandatory three days off, and he intended to use every one of them, which was how he found himself sitting in his favourite overstuffed chair at his favourite coffee shop (in his favourite pair of worn jeans), contemplating his life.

Or, rather, the problem of one Clint Barton and his recent obsession with Phil’s favourite colour.  According to Natasha, Clint had spent the last three weeks bugging her with increasingly wild guesses and theories, because he wanted to make sure he had _good_ ideas before he sent them to Phil.  Slumping further down in his chair, Phil sighed.  This was turning into a serious problem.  Well, maybe not _serious_.  No one was trying to kill him, and nothing had exploded all day.

(Possibly only because Nick was stuck at the _Triskelion_ buried under several piles of paperwork.)

Phil sighed again.  The explosions weren’t the point.  The real issue was how to persuade Clint to let go of his quest to learn all of Phil’s secrets before he guessed that Phil’s heart started doing acrobatics every time Clint was in his general proximity.  It wasn’t Clint’s fault Phil was in love with him -- well, not in a way where Clint had planned it -- but there was no denying that _love_ was what all the butterflies and squirmy feelings and warmth in Phil’s chest _meant_.

Ugh.  This was going to end with him talking about his feelings, wasn’t it?  He _hated_ talking about his feelings.

(Maybe he could take a leaf out of Nick’s book and blow something up?)

His instincts tingling, Phil glanced up and watched Maria Hill stride across the coffeeshop towards him.  She was wearing a suit that blended in with most of the other Washington professionals, somehow making Phil feel a little scruffy in his jeans and leather jacket despite the fact that it was _his day off_.

“Phil,” Maria greeted when she reached Phil’s chair.

Like Phil, her hand was wrapped possessively around a large take out cup of coffee, because if it was one thing SHIELD taught you, it was that caffeine meant survival.  (Particularly given the sheer amount of _weird_ SHIELD agents had to deal with.)

“Maria,” he replied.

“We need to talk,” Maria said flatly, eyeing him with an assessing gaze.  “Barton came to see me today.”

Phil’s stomach clenched, and he was half out of his seat before he could stop himself.  “Is everything okay?”

Maria rolled her eyes.  “He’s fine,” she said, dropping into the armchair opposite Phil.  “You can quit panicking now.”

“I wasn’t panicking,” Phil huffed.

Maria raised a very skeptical eyebrow.  “Uh huh.”

Phil let it go, because nothing good ever came from being on Maria’s badside.  “So why did you need to talk to me about Barton?” he asked.

“He came to see me this morning,” Maria repeated.  She took a sip of her coffee, her eyes dancing with humour when Phil narrowed his eyes in impatience.  “He had a question for me, and you’ll never guess what it was.”

Clint wouldn’t have _dared_.  Would he?

“He asked me what your favourite colour was, Phil,” Maria said.

Phil closed his eyes and groaned softly.  “ _Of course_ he did,” he muttered.

“You know, here’s what I don’t get,” Maria continued.  “I’ve known you for _years_.  So out of all the things Barton could have asked, there were so many more incriminating things I could have told him.  Hell, he didn’t even ask about Bulgaria.”

“So what did you tell him?” Phil said.

Maria snorted.  “I told him that there was no tactical reason for me to have the faintest clue what your favourite colour was, so why was he asking me?” she said.

“And then he said?” Phil asked, bracing himself for the answer.

“He said that he _had_ asked you, but you kept lying so he was trying to gather intelligence from other sources,” Maria said.  She smirked.  “Are you going to tell me _why_ your favourite colour is suddenly a state secret?”

Phil scowled.  “It’s not a state secret.”

“Uh huh.”  Maria looked completely unimpressed as she sipped her coffee.  “So why not just _tell_ Barton?”

“I did,” Phil admitted.  “He didn’t believe me.”

Maria frowned with her whole forehead.  “Okay, I’m lost,” she said.  “Why doesn’t Barton believe you?  Did you give him some sort of weird colour, like ‘burnt sienna’, or something?”

“Burnt sienna?” Phil echoed with a smile.

“Oh, shut up,” Maria grumbled.  “You know my sister is an interior decorator.”

“No,” Phil said.  “The first time Clint asked, I told him my favourite colour was blue.”

Maria blinked.  “Blue?” she said.  “Not periwinkle or aqua or turquoise?  Just blue?”

Well, Clint’s eyes had reminded him of a pale summer sky at the time, but blue covered it.  “Yeah,” Phil said.  “Just blue.”

Maria was quiet for a moment.  “I swear, this better not be a giant, Barton-style conspiracy to make everyone like the colour purple,” she said.

Phil sighed.  “It’s not,” he said.

Maria eyed him.  “Do I want to know?”

“Probably not?” Phil said.

“Ugh,” Maria groaned.  “This is something to do with how you’re an emotionally repressed asshole, isn’t it?”

“It might be,” Phil admitted.

“Does this mean you’re finally going to _do something about it_?” Maria said.

Phil sighed.  “Maybe?” he said.

Maria sent him a flat look and huffed.  “Fine,” she said.  “Dwell.  Brood.  Suffer.  Whatever the hell is it that you’re doing.  I’m going back  to my office.”  She stood up, and smoothed down her jacket with one hand.  “Only, Phil?  Remember this conversation next time you complain to me about Barton.  Because _I will not be listening_.”

Her message delivered, Maria stalked away, leaving Phil to his thoughts.

~*~

Later that evening, Phil was just settling down to watch the next few episodes of _La Femme Nikita_ , when there was a sharp knock on the door to his apartment.  Phil frowned, both because it meant leaving his comfortable spot on the couch, and also because he hadn’t buzzed anyone up.  If this was Nick, he’d better be bringing food.

Instead, when Phil opened the door, he was greeted by the sight of a sheepishly smiling Clint holding what smelled to be a bag of Chinese food.  As he usually did when not at SHIELD, Clint was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt under his familiar leather jacket, his hair artfully messy and an eclectic set of rings on his fingers.  “Hey Phil,” he said.  “I brought dinner?”

Phil hadn’t eaten yet and the warm, spicy scent was making his mouth water.  However, the offer made his eyes narrow.  “How did you know I hadn’t eaten yet?” he asked.

Clint rolled his eyes.  “It’s your day off,” he said.  “You’re still debating whether or not you should actually cook something yourself, or if you can justify getting take out despite the muffins you ate instead of lunch.  I just thought I’d take a shortcut and get you exactly what you would have ordered anyway, only with more vegetables.”

Phil opened his mouth, and then closed it again because he had no argument for that.  Clint was exactly right.  “Um, thanks,” he muttered, stepping aside.  “Come in.”

Grinning, Clint sauntered in and made his way straight to the couch.  He kicked off his boots and curled up in his favourite corner, pulling out various containers and a couple of sets of chopsticks.  “Lemon chicken with vegetables, or beef with snow peas, broccoli and string beans?” he said.

“Broccoli and beans, please,” Phil replied, sitting back down in his side of the couch.  He nodded his thanks when Clint passed one of the boxes over, along with a set of chopsticks.

Despite the casual way he was sitting, there was a tension running through Clint’s shoulders that told Phil this wasn’t entirely a social call.  “Is everything okay?” Phil asked after a minute.

Clint glanced up.  “Well, I’m glad you’re back?” he said.  “Nick said your last mission was a bit of a clusterfuck.”

Phil snorted.  “That’s an understatement,” he said.

Clint smirked.  “Nick also mentioned you were a bit annoyed at him.”

Scowling, Phil stabbed the air with his chopsticks.  “That man is a _menace_ with explosives,” he said.  “Just see if I let him have any next time.”

Chuckling, Clint ducked his head.  “Still, I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help watch your back,” he said quietly.

Warmth blossomed in Phil’s chest.  “Don’t think I don’t know that you would have been right next to Nick, helping him blow shit up,” he said flippantly, trying to cover his sudden squirmy feelings.

(Dammit, this was _ridiculous_.)

“Probably,” Clint admitted.

Munching on a large piece of broccoli, he sat back against the arm of the couch and regarded Phil thoughtfully.  His eyes were narrowed slightly, and in the dim light of Phil’s living room, they looked a deep, almost mysterious blue.  “Hey, Phil,” he said a beat later.  “If I asked you what your favourite colour was right now, what would you say?”

Phil swallowed, his throat suddenly thick.  His instincts were warning him of danger, but when it came to Clint, they often did.  There was a terrifyingly sharp mind hidden behind those equally sharp eyes, and the combination could be deadly.

“Uh,” Phil said, clearing his throat when his voice came out hoarse.  “Blue?”

Clint raised both eyebrows.  “You don’t sound so sure about that,” he said.

“Dark blue,” Phil said more firmly.

Clint hummed.  “Dark blue,” he repeated.  “But it’s been blue-green, blue, grey and green.  I’m beginning to sense a theme, here.”

Phil’s stomach clenched.   _Oh shit_.  Clint was about to work it out.  “Well, there is a reason I like these colours, Barton,” Phil said.

“Barton?” Clint echoed with a quirk of his eyebrow.  Instead of looking annoyed, his eyes danced with humour.  “So I _am_ getting close to figuring it out.”  He set down his food, his expression sobering.  “Why don’t you just tell me, Phil?  Don’t you think I deserve to know?  Whatever this secret is, it definitely involves me.”

Phil closed his eyes.  “There are some things, once said, that can never be taken back, Clint,” he said softly.

“And what makes you think I’m going to _want_ you to take it back?” Clint demanded, setting down his food on Phil’s coffee table with a thump.

Blinking open his eyes, Phil stared.  “What?”

Clint smiled.  “I may not be as good as Natasha at finding out secrets, Phil, but I’m still a spy.  SHIELD should not be paying me as much as it does if I can’t work this kind of shit out.”  He glanced away from Phil, his shoulders hunching slightly.  “At least I think I do.  I’m _hoping_ I do.  It would still be really nice to hear the words out loud, though.”

Phil’s heart squeezed in his chest.  How the hell could he say no to that?  Even if he was about to flay himself open and leave everything bare, he couldn’t deny Clint this.  “I wasn’t lying about my favourite colours, you know,” Phil said, trying to wrangle the words to actually come out of his mouth instead of getting lodged in his throat like usual.  “But I may have been hiding the reason _why_ they’re all my favorites.”

Clint’s gaze flicked up to his, and the piercing intensity almost stole the air from Phil’s lungs.  “So _why_ are they?” he asked.

Phil took a deep breath and steeled himself.  He’d imagined confessing so many times, but it never ended well, not even in his dreams.  Still, Clint was right.  He deserved to know.  “Your eyes,” he said.  “Whenever you ask me, I tell you the colour of your eyes in that moment.”

Clint blinked.  “My eyes?” he said.  “You really think my eyes are that special?”

Phil didn’t even know where to start.  It wasn’t just how Clint could spot things at a distance that no one else could see, or how ‘Hawk’ was less of a fond nickname and more of a truth.  “They’re beautiful,” Phil blurted before he could stop himself.  “Your eyes.  They’re beautiful.”

Clint’s gaze widened, and Phil’s cheeks heated.  He cleared his throat again, sending Clint a wry smile.  “I think all of you is beautiful, actually,” he said.  “I may be harbouring some non-professional and decidedly romantic feelings towards you.”

Phil bit down on his tongue before he could add ‘sorry’ to the end of his confession.  It was hardly a dream proposal -- just like Phil wasn’t anyone’s dream catch -- but he wasn’t about to sound _ashamed_ of his feelings.

“Harbouring…  Romantic feelings…”  Clint stared wide-eyed.  Then he seemed to shake himself.  “Phil,” he said, leaning forward, his eyes narrowed and intent.  “What _kind_ of romantic feelings?”

This time it was Phil’s turn to blink.  He was aware that other people had many different opinions and ideas when about romance, but Phil had always been looking for someone to spend his life with.  Or rather, the parts of his life he hadn’t dedicated to SHIELD.  It wasn’t until Clint had swept into his life that Phil had dared consider a partner he could share SHIELD with, too.  Office romances had always seemed too risky before Clint, because if there was anyone who could tempt Phil to break his personal rules, it was Clint.

Phil tried to swallow, his mouth suddenly dry.  “Uh,” he stuttered, not really sure how to answer Clint’s question.  “The long-term monogamous kind?”

Clint stared at him, but when Phil didn’t say anything else, he closed those amazing eyes, his shoulders sagging.  “Phil,” he said softly.  “Could you _please_ just admit you’re in love with me?  I’m kind of dying here.”

Phil’s jaw dropped open.  His mind swirled with a million jumbled thoughts, but when he tried to speak, none of them came out.  Phil had dreaded the moment that Clint would find out about his feelings, yet at the same time, it felt impossible that Clint _did not know_.  “What… but… _of course_ I’m in love with you,” he said in a rush.

A wide smile burst across Clint’s face, his eyes brightening.  “Oh, good,” he said, sagging back into the couch.  “For a second there, I thought this was going to get embarrassing.”

Phil stared.  His fingers clenched around the take out box he’d forgotten he was holding, and he leaned forward to set it down.  “Embarrassing?” he echoed.  “Why would…”

He trailed off.  There was one reason why Clint would push for Phil to confess his feelings and then act _relieved_.  Phil had scarcely dared hope, but the truth was there in the smile that Clint couldn’t hide, and the way his eyes had warmed to a blue that was -- believe it, or not -- tinged with violet.

Naturally, the asshole didn’t seem inclined to say the words out loud, despite making Phil do it.

“You know, finding out your favourite colour was only step one of my elaborate plan,” Clint said.  “I was going to _woo_ you.  Buy you baked good with your favour colour sprinkles on top.  Actually, I was going to start with flowers, but Nat said you weren’t exactly a flowers kind of guy?”  He paused, frowning.  “I’m not sure I can do that now I know, anyway.”

That was it.  Phil was going to throw a piece of broccoli _at Clint’s head_.

Clint laughed suddenly, derailing Phil’s thoughts.  “You can put down the chopsticks you’re brandishing, Phil,” he said.  He sobered, his gaze serious and intent, like his next words were very important.  “I love you, too.  I’m been _in_ love with you for an embarrassingly long time.”

He shrugged, his smile turning wry as if Clint loving Phil back was some kind of booby prize.

(Phil was going to make sure that changed and that Clint was aware of how _amazing_ it was that he loved Phil back.  How amazing _he_ was.  There was just one -- maybe two -- things Phil needed to do first.)

“That’s… you…”  Phil huffed.  There was a warm, bubbly feeling rising in his chest, threatening to drown him.  “You didn’t think to say that last part _first_?” he growled.

“No?” Clint said, his face scrunching up as if he was _honestly baffled_.  “I kind of always thought my feelings were really obvious and that you already knew?”

Phil wanted to groan and drop his face into his hands, but the swirling, bright warmth in his chest was bubbling up.  “I didn’t,” he said hoarsely.  Letting out a breath, he dropped every mask and barrier he’d ever used to hide his feelings, letting all of the love shine through on his face.  “For the record, I _didn’t_ know, or I would have done this a lot sooner.”

Clint frowned.  “Done what?” he asked.  “Let…”

Phil didn’t wait for Clint to finish his no doubt smartass question.  Instead, he shifted forwards enough to grab Clint by the ankle and _pull_.  Clint flailed his arms with a shout, but he didn’t resist Phil’s efforts to bring him closer.  “Phil, are you going all cave-man on me?” he asked with a smirk.  “Because…”

“Clint, shut up,” Phil muttered.

Bracing a hand on the cushions just beside Clint’s head, Phil leaned down and kissed him.  It perhaps wasn’t Phil’s most graceful first kiss, but somehow it didn’t matter that Phil was awkwardly leaning over Clint, or that his neck was at an uncomfortable angle.  He was finally kissing Clint, and Clint was _kissing him back_.  Phil’s stomach swooped as Clint’s calloused hand slid up to settle on the hinge of his jaw, and Phil pressed in closer, deepening the kiss.  Clint moaned softly, surging upwards and opening his lips under Phil’s and the kiss turned wet and hot.

“Clint…” Phil tried to say, pulling back a little.

“Nuh uh,” Clint grumbled against Phil’s lips.  “Kissing now, talking later.”

Phil couldn’t help but give in, but he did startle a little when Clint’s hand slipped under his t-shirt to rest on the small of his back.  Clint chuckled, the sound rumbling through Phil, right before gravity failed.  No, wait.  Phil blinked, staring up at a smirking Clint.  The sneaky bastard had flipped them while Phil was distracted.  Clint settled more firmly against Phil, his solid weight pressing Phil into the couch while one of his legs slid between Phil’s.

“Hey, there,” Clint said, grinning.  His colourful eyes were now only a tiny ring of blue surrounding a black pupil, and Phil couldn’t help the shiver that ran down his spine.

Clint’s grin widened.  “So, I have an idea,” he said.  “Want to see if we can find you a new favourite colour?”

Phil arched a questioning eyebrow, which wasn’t easy with his arms around Clint, because the feeling of all that firm muscle and warm skin was making it hard to think.  “And how do you propose we do that?” he said.

Clint shifted, pressing his groin more firmly against Phil’s hip.  Phil swallowed sharply.

“Let me rephrase,” Clint said, leaning in to trail kisses along Phil’s jaw to his ear.  “Want to see what colour my eyes turn when I come?”

Phil groaned.  “Yes,” he gasped.  “ _Please_.”

Clint grinned, and scrambled off the couch.  Phil had a moment to curse the loss of warm archer pressed against him before Clint was yanking him up, too.  “Come on, then,” Clint said, tugging Phil towards the bedroom.  “What are you waiting for?”

~*~

For the record, Clint’s eyes turned a sharp, glittering blue.  Phil was pretty sure it was his new favourite.

(Top three, definitely.)

 

End.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Bonus scene:
> 
> “Do you know what Coulson’s favourite colour is?” Clint asked before he lost his nerve.
> 
> Maria blinked.  “ _That’s_ your question?” she said.
> 
> “Yes?” Clint replied.
> 
> Sighing, Maria rolled her eyes.  “I have fifteen years of blackmail about Phil Coulson, and you want to know what his favourite colour is?”
> 
> Clint offered her his best endearing smile.  “Please?” he tried.
> 
> “Get out of my office, Hawk,” Maria said.  “Ask him yourself.”


End file.
